


Restraint

by Elysium-fic (RCD_Anon)



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bondage, Comeplay, Dubious Consent, Kink Meme, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-02
Updated: 2010-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RCD_Anon/pseuds/Elysium-fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/2508.html?thread=3750348#t3750348">DAO kmeme prompt here:</a>
<br/><i>Everyone knows how tempted they were in their first playthrough, quite some companions seem interested in you and you want to know how far you can take it... ;)</i></p><p>Well Alistair and Zevran have had enough! They plot having their way with their cocktease, even if it has to be done by force ;) They have their (rough) way with her, taking turns holding her down while she struggles at first but is overpowered by lust later... nothing too dark ;)</p><p>Browniepoints for cumplay ;)</p><p>As always, thank you to <a href="http://twist-shimmy.dreamwidth.org">twist_shimmy</a> for the tireless beta work!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restraint

She doesn't want them.

That's what Lyna keeps telling herself about the towering _shem_ and the flat-ear assassin. They're unworthy of one born of the Dalish. Their flirtations may be charming, each in their own way, and it provides her with amusement to flirt back, especially the delightful way Alistair blushes, and the glowing promise her teasing brings to Zevran's eyes before she walks away in the very instant that he is about to agree to her implied offer. But the bastard prince cannot possibly have any serious designs upon an elf (even if she was interested, which she's not, of course) and the Creators know the Antivan Crow can't have sincere intentions toward _anyone_.

She doesn't want them. Either of them. Forget that a naughty smile from the templar can drench her loincloth with insane haste. Never mind that with a few well-aimed words the assassin can send her scrambling for her tent to relieve her arousal, straddling a rolled-up blanket and rocking upon it.

She doesn't want them. It's as simple as that.

It has nothing to do with the fact that she doesn't know how to choose between them, now that she has slowly overcome her bigotry and understands the flaws and failings and arrogance of her own people. Nor does it have anything to do with the fact that imagining the mechanics of coupling with a human, much less one as tall and broad as her fellow Grey Warden, is somewhat baffling to her. _Nor_ does it have anything to do with the fact that she's never coupled with a man before and that her pride won't let her confess that fact. She'd been making progress in that direction with Tamlen, but....

No. She doesn't want them, and that's final.

Why, then, is Alistair stalking toward her with hunger burning in his eyes? Why is Zevran suddenly behind her, a sandalwood-and-leather scented wall, hooking an arm through her elbows to pin her arms behind her back?

"This has gone far enough, Zevran. Release me." There. Nice, firm voice, properly disdainful, appropriately commanding.

"Is it so hard to make a choice, my sweet Warden?" he murmurs tauntingly next to her ear, his free hand sliding up her thigh beneath the leather straps of her war skirt. "You've led us both along nicely. The chase has been fun, but now it is time for the capture, yes?"

Alistair is much less confident.

"Please, Lyna. You have to know how I feel about you by now. You're making me crazy, the way you keep teasing and then leave me hanging! I want you to be my first. Just... don't lead us on any longer. Tell us who you want and quit making such a damned game of it."

Maybe his accusation is a _little_ bit valid. Unable to choose between them, unwilling to bring an end to the flirtation she's enjoyed with both, she has dangled them along, thrilled by their ever more purposeful responses. She's taken them each to the edge of that crucial moment of decision with word play, with kisses and caresses, but never beyond it. The sense of power to have two men, each beautiful in his own right, desiring her has been intoxicating.

She never considered that she might be making them desperate. Now she doesn't feel so powerful or superior. Now she feels like the rabbit caught in the snare, her heart thumping and racing wildly as she struggles against Zevran's grip.

It's a simple request. Eminently reasonable, even. Choose. That's all, nothing more. Choose one, take him to her tent, and all her waiting will be ended.

So why isn't she speaking?

And by the Creators, what madness was it that convinced her to take only these two and the mabari that had adopted her out to slay the Kadan-Fe mercenaries for Master Ignacio, and leave the rest of her companions behind? Surely they would never do such a thing as pin her between them and force a choice upon her in the middle of camp with everyone else gathered around.

"Perhaps she does not wish to choose," Zevran's lilting voice practically purrs in her ear. "Perhaps she is holding out for us both?"

His inflection makes a question of it, but there is a pressure against her backside that clearly approves of the notion. His finger dips under the edge of her loincloth and comes away shining with evidence of the truth of his words.

"Is that it?" Alistair asks, and there is something fierce in his gaze, a resolution she didn't realize he was capable of. "Were you just planning to string us both along forever because you can't make up your mind?"

That angry determination causes a shiver of fear to run through her. What had she been thinking, telling him to begin to think for himself? "Let me go, Zevran," she demands again, but his arm merely tightens harder upon hers.

"It is as we discussed, my friend," Zevran tells Alistair. His tone is mournful, but there is a note of eagerness beneath it that says he's enjoying this game. "We agreed what we would do if she would not choose, and now that is the point at which we find ourselves."

"By the Creators, I am going to skewer you both if you don't release me this instant!" Lyna snarls, jerking against Zevran's grasp. Zevran chuckles into her hair, a delicious, knowing sound that makes everything within her tighten in a very pleasant way.

"How will you do that, sweet Warden?" he asks mockingly, and even his derision is exquisite. "I see your weapons, and they are over by the fire. You are quite unarmed and at our mercy. There is indeed skewering to be done here tonight, but _you_ shall be the one pierced and quite delightfully so. You see, your templar and I have been planning this confrontation for some time and we reached a, ah, 'gentlemen's agreement' is the Fereldan term, yes? Unless and until you make a choice, we will share. But there will be no more teasing. You will have us completely, or not at all. Thus, your choices are these. First, you may pick one of us to be your lover, and the other shall graciously step aside. Second, you may decide that you want neither of us, and we will have no more games; you shall be our leader and nothing more, never our lover. Or, lastly, if you refuse to declare your preference, we shall decide for you, and we will both have you, here, tonight, and for as long as you persist in your indecision."

"Don't make us do this, Lyna," Alistair pleads. "This isn't how I want it to be between us, but... I can't take what you've been doing to me anymore. Just... make a decision. Tell me to jump off a cliff, if that's the way you want it. I'll step aside if it's Zevran you want. But I need to _know_ , one way or the other."

"All you have to do to win your release, Warden, is say you want one of us, or neither of us," Zevran reiterates. "Say the word, and all this will stop."

Creators' sake, why can she not speak the words they are demanding of her? All she has to do is choose a lover, choose one of two men, each of whom she wants desperately. She can have her arms back and actually _touch_ one of them. She can finally find pleasure with something other than a rolled-up blanket or her own fingers.

So why is she merely growling another protest and fighting against Zevran again?

"Her laces, if you would, my friend?" Zevran prompts casually when she doesn't answer. Alistair looks hesitant for a moment, and then his shaking hands find the leather cords that secure her soft halla-skin armor beneath her breasts and release them. As the shortened cuirass loosens, Alistair plunges his huge hands up under the leather and pushes it up to her armpits. Just as abruptly, he jerks down the cloth band wrapped around her breasts. His eyes widen and his nostrils flare as her breasts are exposed to his gaze.

" _Maker's breath_ ," he sighs reverently, reaching out to cup one. His thumb brushes the tip, bringing it to hard alertness as another spasm of tension moves her hips. His fingers are unskilled, but warm and rough and perfect. Then Zevran's hand takes her other breast, and his touch is extremely skilled, expertly pinching with just the right amount of pressure to make her writhe and whine in pleasure.

"Do you want us, sweet Warden?" he asked, his lips moving against the sensitive, pointed tip of her ear. Perversely, all his words do is ignite her struggles again, making her twist and wriggle in an effort to evade their grasp. Suddenly her arms are free and she pushes Alistair away. He gives Lyna a startled look and she thinks she's won a victory, only to realize that Zevran released her deliberately to push the leather of her chest armor up her arms and over her head in one swift, deft motion. Her arms are pinned by the sleeves momentarily, and before she can jerk them free, Zevran commands, "Grab her, my friend."

Alistair's arms encircle her waist and he jerks her against the solid bulk of his body just as her arms are liberated. She hadn't thought twice about the fact that he and Zevran had removed their armor once they made camp. Unlike the leather crafted by the Dalish that she wears, their armor is cumbersome and uncomfortable. It's habit for them to remove it once camp is made, to clean and oil it.

Now, however, it means that there is very little—just her war skirt and a couple thin layers of linen—between Alistair's body and her own. They have removed their shirts also, and that is _not_ usually the case. She should have taken notice. Just above her navel, she can feel a throbbing hardness that is large enough to fill her with trepidation. She cannot forget that he is not of her people. They are not meant to be compatible mates. The Creators did not design them to be so.

"Why do you struggle so, Warden?" Zevran asks, pressing against her so that she is caught firmly between them. Now there is another hardness, only slightly less intimidating, against her backside. The assassin's lips are on her shoulder as his hands capture hers and his fingers encircle her wrists, stilling her flailing fight. "You only need to speak and we will stop."

"Then let me go." She despises the way her voice quavers.

"Ah, you are not playing by the rules," he chides. "You must speak a name, either of our names. Declare who will be your lover. Or declare that you do not want us and will have neither of us. Those are the words which will end this, those and no others."

And once again she falls mute, a strange paralysis of speech rendering her unable to form the words that will win her freedom.

"Of course, we would prefer to have you admit your desire," Zevran coaxes. "If you will not tell us you don't want us, then tell us you do. Certainty is preferable to ambiguity in these matters, yes?"

Unaccountably, Lyna is unable to give them those words any more than she is able to provide the denial she knows she ought to render. Why?

"So be it," the elf states, nipping at her neck hard enough to make her flinch. "If you will not speak, then your silence shall be your consent." His hands release her wrists and began to release the strap binding her war skirt about her waist.

"Are we sure about this?" Alistair asks uncertainly.

"We cannot possibly make it any clearer that she has the option to end this all," Zevran answers, and there is something impatient in his voice, almost irate. "She wishes to continue to play with us, as though we have no feelings, no desires of our own, as though we are children's toys led along by a string. To her, we are lesser beings and she is above us, isn't that right, Warden? She enjoys the power it gives her to make us dance to her tune. Well, we shall play a tune of our own tonight, yes?"

Alistair's eyes are resentful when they meet hers, even a bit betrayed. He believes Zevran's words, believes she's been toying with him. And her pride is too great to set him to rights and tell him that yes, once she considered them unworthy of her, that she initiated these games out of a sense of entitlement and superiority. Nor will her pride let her tell him of the fear that has led her to this point, even once she began to see the error of her conceit. Fear of hurting him by choosing Zevran. Fear of hurting Zevran by choosing him. Fear of being hurt when Alistair moves on to some human woman and forgets the elf he dallied with, or when Zevran decides he no longer needs her for protection and chooses to wander away. Surely this fear of losing them, this is the most significant sign that she no longer considers them unworthy. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Is this why she cannot bring herself to say yes? She wishes to be angry with them afterward, to have a shield against the inevitable loss and betrayal. If she does not give them her consent, she can always find a way to convince herself that they forced her, that they gave her no choice.

It will be a lie, but it will be a comforting lie. She does not trust them not to leave her. Caring only leads to grief and loss. She learned that from Tamlen, from her father's death and her mother's disappearance and being sent away from her clan.

Alistair kisses her then, hard and punishing. He's angry with her, and it's better that way. He has kissed her before and she has allowed it, but never like this. Never in rage and aggression. He plunders her mouth while Zevran lifts her feet one after the other and removes her boots, then jerks her loincloth down her thighs.

When Zevran presses up behind her again, he has removed his own breeches and smallclothes as well. His skin is warm and bare against hers as he threads his fingers through her hair and pulls her head back to bite her neck until she moans. Alistair follows her mouth, and they are both pressed tightly against her, so tightly! She can't move, can't breathe, can't think, can't muster awareness for anything beyond Alistair greedily devouring her mouth and Zevran sucking hard upon her neck.

Zevran slides his body against hers, pushing the hardness that is trapped between them up along the cleft of her buttocks, stroking. He groans, wrenching her head aside to suck on the other side of her neck, and the pressure of his mouth is so fierce she knows she will bear bruises in the morning. Again and again he thrusts against her, driving her into Alistair whose hands have found her breasts and are kneading roughly. The motion mimics the coupling they have sworn to force upon her and it's good, so very good.

Zevran kicks Lyna's ankles apart and Alistair's thigh slips between hers as he strains even closer to her, pushing with his hips to grind his hardness into her belly. The cloth of his breeches is rough and the friction it provides against her smooth, wet cleft wrings a desperate sound from her throat to be swallowed up by his mouth. And now they're both thrusting against her, before and behind, between her buttocks and against her belly. The friction against her sex soon has her shaking, pushing herself harder against Alistair's thigh. Zevran's teeth close with delicate precision on the sensitive tip of her ear and she goes rigid, everything within her seizing in gentle spasms of rapture.

She goes limp when the waves pass, panting as Alistair releases her mouth to stare at her in wonder. Zevran chuckles wickedly against her ear.

"This game will be much more to your liking, yes?"

Alistair withdraws his thigh and glances down to see the linen of his breeches is wet. Blinking as though attempting to figure out what that means, he touches the damp patch curiously.

"It is the mark of a woman's desire, my friend," Zevran says encouragingly. "Her body craves us, makes itself ready for us. Touch her. Touch her and see."

Alistair's hand reaches tentatively out, slides down the smooth, hairless mound above her sex only to encounter more slick moisture. He does not know what he is about, but he is too far gone to let that stop him as his fingers trace the wetness to its source, parting the folds of skin and finding her warm and practically dripping.

"Andraste's mercy, you smell so good! You're so _soft_!" he whispers to her, causing her knees to weaken. His eyes close as his fingers explore her blindly.

"We elves do not have the hair you humans possess," Zevran explains.

Lyna's knees buckle as Alistair's finger bumps against her over-stimulated center, drawing a gasp from her as her entire body twitches in response. Zevran takes the opportunity to drop to the ground, dragging her down with him by his grip on her hair. She has no choice but to go down or have her hair ripped out of her scalp. She grunts in pain at the pulling but she yields and sinks to the ground with him.

"Since this is your first time, my friend, I will be happy to let you have the honors." The assassin's voice is casual, unconcerned as he unfolds his legs and tugs until Lyna is forced to do the same. The hand not holding her hair dips between her thighs to tease lightly at her folds. "I have no objection to following where another man has already been."

Alistair's eyes widen. He licks his lips nervously and stands frozen for a moment, looking down at the pair of them nude upon the ground with Zevran's body bracketing hers. Then he draws a deep breath, sets his shoulders, and pushes his breeches and smallclothes down his legs.

Lyna swallows at the sight on him, larger even than she had imagined when she felt him pressed against her. Long and hard, springing from a nest of rusty hair at the base of his rippling stomach. She knows her eyes are wide and frightened, and quickly she closes them. She knows she ought to say something, anything to bring a stop to this, but she cannot. Admitting her fear, her inexperience would be humiliating. Her pride will not allow it, not after the way she has led them both along, pretending to possess a knowledge that has only truly been hypothetical. She is a fraud and a liar and soon they will know it.

She resists when Zevran tries to compel her to lay back, and so he is forced to wrestle her down until his knees are on either side of her head and his hands pin her wrists to the ground. Fortunately it is a warm spring night or it would be miserable to lie here upon the ground. There is a long moment of waiting with her eyes tightly shut, but then she feels Alistair kneeling, pushing her thighs apart with hands that shake despite his determination. He crawls between them and takes a moment to caress the length of her body, and she barely hears him as he whispers, "Don't do this to us, Lyna. Tell me you want me. Tell me you don't. Tell me anything, please."

"She will not, my friend." Zevran's voice is hard and angry again. "We have chosen our course, yes? Let us proceed."

Zevran moves back, drawing her hands with him until she is stretched out with her arms far above her head, and Alistair moves his body over hers. Her knees come up almost by instinct, opening herself wider, and she can feel that blunt hardness prodding and seeking. They both feel it when he finds the right spot, the gateway that will open if he pushes through it. He attempts to shove, but there's resistance. He's too large and she's too tight. She whimpers in alarm, throwing her head back as she grimaces at the mounting discomfort.

"My friend, stop!" Zevran says sharply, looking down at Lyna in shock.

Alistair is panting and shaking above her as though he's made far more progress than he actually has. He's on the knife's edge of losing control; it's written in every tense line of his body. He looks at Zevran almost gratefully.

"This... isn't working."

"No, I should say not," Zevran replies, surprise heavy in his voice. The look he gives her is softly chiding and strangely affectionate. " _Lyna_. Why have you not told us you have no experience with men?"

" _What?_ " Alistair pushes himself off her quickly as Lyna closes her eyes in mortification. All these months she has cultivated an image of assurance, experience, skill, not merely in matters of sex, but in everything. She has used it to inspire confidence in her followers, convincing them she is no untried girl but a knowledgeable woman. Among her own people, her markings would have been enough to make that statement, but here, in this very different world, she has often felt unequal to cope with all she has been asked to do.

Her pride will not allow her to admit that, either. Certainly it would not have permitted it back when they were simply a flat-ear and a _shem_. And now she is trapped within her deceit.

Zevran, perhaps, understands what this means, having spent some small amount of time among the Dalish. The People are longer-lived than their city-dwelling kin, and thus it has been easy to pretend she is older and wiser than she is despite her youthful appearance.

"Andraste's mercy, have I hurt you?" Alistair asks in horror and Lyna groans in dismay. Zevran's surprise is so acute that he has forgotten to keep pressure on her arms and she jerks away from him, sitting up and burying her face in her hands. "Why did you tell me... Maker's breath, you said you'd licked lampposts!" he accuses. "Plenty of them!"

She lifts her head to glare at him. "By the Creators, what are these 'lampposts' you keep blathering about?" she snaps, taking refuge behind her pride again, though her face flames beneath the twining vines of her markings. "How am I supposed to make any sense of your ridiculous _shem_ metaphors?"

Something that sounds infuriatingly like amusement sneaks its way past Zevran's lips and she pushes him away, trying to gain her feet. Alistair sits back to give her room to rise, but Zevran captures her arm and will not let go.

"This changes nothing, Warden," he says firmly, catching her wrist in his other hand as she strikes out at him.

"It doesn't?" Alistair nearly squeaks in surprise.

"Nothing. Except that, forgive me, my friend, perhaps I should be the one to prepare her for you," Zevran gives her a slow smile, one filled with lewd intent. "Unless she has changed her mind about declaring her intentions?"

Lyna scowls at him, but he merely pulls her against his body and kisses her. If Alistair's kiss was been all instinctive fury and untamed aggression, Zevran's is the opposite; forceful, yes, but also skillful, calculated to arouse. She struggles because it feels good to struggle, to release some of her anxiety, but her mouth opens to him and her tongue greets his. Once he's satisfied with her response, Zevran shoves her roughly to the ground.

He pins her down, straddling her waist, with his hands on her upper arms. His mouth finds her neck again, sucking hard. She can practically feel the large purple bruises forming upon her skin, over and over until she thinks surely her neck and shoulders must be covered.

When he lifts his head, he surveys the damage he has wrought and smirks in satisfaction. Alistair makes a surprised, choking sound.

"You have lied to us all, little Warden," Zevran taunts, "a girl pretending to be a woman, a child pretending to be an elder. But now, when we return to the others, they will see you and know you have taken a lover at last, and they will wonder, which of us was it branded you with our passion and made you a woman. And then tomorrow night when we both take you they will know that it makes no difference who claimed you first, yes? For you will belong to us both until you choose only one."

"Hold her," he commands Alistair, and Alistair's hesitation fades again. He is as affected by Zevran's words as she is, she realizes. He looms above her, kneeling at her side and leaning over to hold her down by the upper arms as Zevran releases his grasp and moves away.

He walks away from them entirely, leaving both Alistair and Lyna bewildered, and grabs something from his packs. Then Zevran returns, stepping between her ankles and kneeling with his characteristic lithe grace. His hands stroke her hips as he leans forward and insinuates his torso between her legs, pushing her thighs apart.

His mouth is upon her without warning, bringing her arching off the ground with a startled cry. His arms curl under her thighs to cup her backside and he pulls her up to his meet his mouth, spreading her wider as he does so, his tongue—for the love of the Creators, his tongue!—stroking and flicking, working that sensitive spot so skillfully that soon all thoughts of protest or resistance are gone as she bucks and moans. She doesn't really notice the way her breasts brush Alistair's shaft until he groans above her and something hot and thick splashes across her chest.

Zevran lifts his head and the reprieve allows her to breathe, to think, to collect her senses and realize what has happened. Alistair is shuddering and gasping, his head bowed as he rests more of his weight than is strictly comfortable upon the hands still pinning her arms. And cooling on her breasts, sliding into the bony valley between, are thick strands of pearly white fluid.

Alistair looks mortified when he finally glances up, but Zevran merely grins and lowers Lyna's hips back to the ground to clap him on the back. "Ah, you will be glad for that, my friend! It will help you enjoy yourself more later," he chuckles wickedly.

Alistair gives the elven assassin a dubious look, as though not entirely convinced Zevran isn't just saying that to spare him humiliation, but Zevran does not bother to reiterate or clarify. Instead, he moves up to lie alongside her opposite Alistair. His fingers reach out and slide through the milky liquid pooling between her breasts. When his fingers are coated, he brings them to Lyna's mouth.

"Taste him, Warden," he commands, smearing it across her lips as Alistair draws back and removes his weight from her arms. Her tongue darts out to sample it before she can think to check the response, and his fingers push into her mouth. It's salt and musk and something completely foreign and she wants more.

"Ah, yes," Zevran murmurs, thrusting and withdrawing his fingers slowly as Alistair watches, enraptured. Her tongue slides between his fingers, delving for more, and Zevran takes his fingers from her mouth. He swipes them casually through Alistair's seed again and begins to rub it upon her nipple, coating the hard peak in thick, sticky fluid. He brings his fingers to her mouth again and she opens eagerly for them as Zevran leans forward and takes her nipple into his mouth.

Alistair gasps.

When Zevran comes up for air, he offers Alistair a slow smile and Lyna realizes that she is not the only reluctant party he's working his charms upon. He'd once remarked to her that he suspected Alistair wouldn't be inclined to share, and now she understands that Zevran intends to convince him to do just that. Zevran doesn't _want_ her to choose between them; he wants exactly what is taking place.

Zevran's fingers dabble and draw lazy trails through the mess upon her breasts while his other hand moves lower. At first she thinks he's going to touch her, but instead he begins to pump and jerk in sharp, rapid movements. Seconds later he scrambles up and gives his shaft a few more strokes, and then there is another mess, still hot from his body, spreading across her skin, mingling with the seed Alistair has left behind. Immediately he catches some upon his fingers and brings them to her mouth once more.

"This is a taste we should all become accustomed to, yes?" he says with a smug smile. "Unless our lovely Warden declares herself, our seed will be mingling on and within her every night. It is best we get used to it, don't you agree, my friend?"

Alistair looks fascinated in spite of himself. His hand reaches out and then pulls back hesitantly, and then reaches forward again, touching the cooling liquid. Zevran rubs a hand through it, spreading it across her skin like a balm. He covers her other nipple with it and without being bidden to do so, Alistair bends and takes it into his mouth, while Zevran continues to massage their mingled seed into her skin, down her belly, into the wet folds of her sex.

She is being marked, she thinks deliriously as Zevran's expert fingers begin stroking her toward pleasure again. As surely as the bruises his suction has left upon her neck, as surely as the tattooed vines twining and trailing down her skin from her face to her feet, she is being branded as _theirs_.

That thought ought to infuriate and disgust her. A flat-ear and a _shem_ staking claim upon _her_? But instead it thrills and delights her.

Zevran moves down her body again, his tongue following the sticky trail he has drawn along her belly with his hand. Her thighs part eagerly to let him settle his body between and his mouth takes possession of her sex once again while Alistair's tongue swipes the last traces of their combined seed from her nipple and works its way across her sticky skin to the other breast.

Zevran's mouth is devastating her, driving out any hope of rational thought, making her clutch and claw at Alistair until he's forced to pin her arms again. She's getting used to being trapped by them, held down by them. It feels almost safe, in a way, despite that frisson of fear that lingers.

Her legs are over Zevran's shoulders—how did that happen?—and he's devouring her, making everything in her body wind tighter. His finger begins massaging and pushing at her entrance, circling and gently probing. There's a moment of discomfort, a sensation of something giving way, and then his finger is inside her and his mouth, hismouthhismouth _hismouth!_ , is sucking upon that sensitive nub. She tumbles over the edge, arching and shrieking her pleasure into the night air. Alistair captures her screams with his own mouth, his tongue, salty and slightly bitter with the seed he has licked from her skin, plunging between her lips.

When she comes back to herself, trembling and sobbing beneath Alistair's kisses, Zevran has two fingers inside her, and he's working them in and out. Each motion makes her shudder in a small imitation of the greater pleasure that has just passed. He's being careful, and there is some discomfort, some stretching and that strange, foreign sensation of intrusion, but it's not unpleasant and not nearly as painful as she had feared.

Alistair moves away from her mouth to watch as Zevran prepares her. "Maker's breath, is that blood?"

"Only a very little," Zevran assures him, his voice calm. "And quite common for a maiden. It is nothing to worry about, yes?"

Slowly he works, so very slowly, and as the heightened sensitivity following her pleasure begins to diminish, Lyna can feel herself growing restless, moving in time to the slow thrusts of his fingers. The sense of fullness and stretching is less, now, and she wants it to be more again. She pushes her hips to meet his hand, seeking _more_ and he spreads his fingers, prying her open, stretching her still further.

She moans a complaint when Zevran withdraws his fingers, but he merely uncorks a vial, pours oil upon his hand, and returns to his work, rubbing the oil between her folds before pushing his fingers inside her, less slowly and carefully this time. That moment of initial intrusion is exquisite, but soon she has adapted and accepted those two fingers, even when he spreads them apart. And so he adds a third.

Lyna groans, writhing with mingled discomfort and pleasure. His fingers feel so _good_ filling her and she's so unbearably empty when they withdraw. It's an effort to accommodate all three, and yet it's so much better than just two was, so much _more_. He twists and wriggles and spreads his fingers until the discomfort is nearly gone, and when at last he withdraws his hand for the final time, smearing pink-tinged oil and fluids upon the pale skin of her thigh, she whimpers, bereft.

Zevran rubs more oil along her cleft and tells Alistair, "She is as ready as she can be, my friend. With a human of your... proportions there might yet be some pain, but I think she will count the pleasure well worth it."

Lyna nods before she has a chance to catch herself, and Zevran and Alistair both catch the motion. Some of the tension goes out of them before she has a chance to remind herself or them that they are forcing this upon her, and Alistair is kissing her again, moving over her body as Zevran vacates the space between her legs.

Zevran captures her wrists again and pins them above her head once more as Alistair settles between her thighs, his hips nudging hers. She doesn't know why he pins her—perhaps he simply likes restraining her, or perhaps he doesn't trust her acquiescence—but she's trapped and at their mercy once more. Alistair, calmer now than the first time he attempted this but again large and hard, takes himself in hand and begins seeking that angle where they fit together.

Or perhaps "fit" isn't the right word, Lyna thinks wildly, tensing as the wide end of Alistair's shaft finds her entrance and begins nudging forward. He's so slick with the oil that Zevran coated her sex with that his progress is fast, too fast. She goes rigid, crying out in pain and surprise.

"Gently, my beautiful Warden, gently," Zevran murmurs, and she thinks perhaps it's not her to whom he is speaking, despite the endearment. Alistair stops pushing, his entire body trembling as he holds himself above her. Lyna realizes that she is shaking too, her neck extended, her head thrown back. It's too much! Too full, too tight, too big, too _everything_. She hovers on the precipice of demanding that he stop, but she doesn't want to stop, she wants to find whatever waits for her on the other side of this.

Instinctively she lifts her knees, and that small change, just a minor alteration, makes it better, more bearable. It opens her wider, relaxes her muscles and suddenly having him inside her is _good_.

"Oh, sweet Andraste!" Alistair hisses between gritted teeth, shifting in response to her motion and sliding in just a bit deeper. It's still there on that dagger's edge of being overwhelming, still too much of that uncomfortable feeling of being stretched beyond what her body can take, but it's also pleasurable. Having him within her feels _right_ , feels as though something that was missing has been found.

She lifts her knees higher, to his tapered waist, nearly to his ribs, and he surges the rest of the way into her, until that strange hair rubs roughly against her sex. They moan together.

Alistair's shaking arms refuse to support him any longer and he rests his weight upon her. It should be suffocating, but instead it's perfect.

"I love you," he whispers, kissing her face, his upper lip damp with perspiration. For a moment she feels overwhelmed again, not by his body within hers, but by emotion. How can he possibly say such a thing after the way she has treated them both?

"Touch her, my friend," Zevran coaxes, his voice low and rough. "Find what gives her pleasure. There is a small, secret pearl just above where your body joins hers. Seek it out, not too roughly."

Calmer now, Alistair pushes himself back up on one arm while the other moves between their bodies and his fingers explore the soft, smooth mound above her sex and then down.

Lyna tenses and shudders as he chances upon the spot, and Alistair grunts and pushes with his hips in response. His fingertips move over the area, with careful pressure, and she whimpers and moves beneath him.

"Ah, there it is, you have found it," Zevran says encouragingly. "Do not neglect it, for that is the art which separates men from simple rutting beasts. It is better to see to her first, before you forget yourself, yes?"

"That's... going to be... quite soon," Alistair pants, rubbing. Suddenly he stumbles upon the right pressure and rhythm and everything _shifts_. She lifts her hips, seeking more of the friction he offers, driving him even deeper into her. The tension is building, mounting, and it's so much better and more intense with him filling her than it has ever been with just a touch outside.

"Yesss," she hisses, no longer caring that she's supposed to be denying them. She's there, right there, so very close to the brink, and then Alistair begins to _move_ and it's the last little bit needed to push her over the edge. She cries out, straining against Zevran's grasp on her wrists, bucking and thrashing beneath Alistair's body. Alistair withdraws his hand and uses it to brace his weight and begins to thrust in earnest, surging into her heedlessly. There's no pain now, only indescribable pleasure. If her arms were free she would touch him, grasp and claw at him, but all she can do is lift her hips to meet his movements as he plunges deep within her.

He's making a desperate, growling sound in his throat now and then she feels that hardness filling her begin to twitch and pulse. Alistair collapses on top of her, his breathing harsh in her ears. His skin is slick with sweat and spasmodic shudders occasionally ripple through him as he rests. Lyna finds herself straining against Zevran's grip on her wrists to lift her head enough that she can places kisses upon Alistair's damp shoulders and chest. When Zevran releases her, she embraces the trembling templar, stroking his back.

Alistair rolls off her, and when Zevran immediately takes his place she understands he tapped Alistair's shoulder, nudged him aside, reminded him that they were sharing. There is nothing cautious or hesitant about Zevran; his look is dark, fierce, determined. He plunges immediately into her, jolting her entire body with the force of his thrust, and his eyes capture hers and hold them.

She is relaxed and loose and wet with Alistair's seed, but Zevran has other ways of making her feel him when the sensation might have otherwise been lost. He pauses only long enough to bend his head and deliver several bites along the skin of her breasts, where his and Alistair's earlier release has dried, before speaking.

"Sit behind her, my friend. Hold her up and let her rest against your body," Zevran instructs, and Alistair does not question the directive. Zevran pulls her up by her arms and with that change in the angle suddenly his presence within her is _more_. More pressure, more tension in her muscles. Alistair slides in behind her and draws her back against his body, so that she reclines, half-sitting, against his chest. Then Zevran hooks his arms behind her knees and shoves them up almost to her breasts so that she is folded nearly in half, and begins to move.

He is neither slow nor gentle, setting a punishing pace that wrenches a strangled cry from her lips. Where his groin meets hers she can feel copious wetness on their skin and she realizes Alistair's seed is coating them both and somehow that thought makes it all even more powerful. Zevran slams into her, driving her against Alistair's hard chest, and the motion drags the length of him back and forth across some spot within her that is strangely, almost unbearably intense. It feels as though she's going to lose her water, she thinks with alarm, only pressure in her bladder never feels this good. She begins to struggle and whine, loving the feeling but afraid that she will humiliate herself, but Alistair catches her arms when she tries to shove Zevran away and pins them to her side, so that all she can do is endure what the motion of Zevran inside her is causing.

Over and over he drives into her, the force of his thrust shaking all three of them, and soon her wailing cries began to merge together into a single, continuous chorus that lingers somewhere between a moan and a scream. That _pressure_ , oh, Creators' sake, that pressure, it's maddening and terrifying and then there is liquid, a startling spray that splashes across Zevran's belly, and another, and another.

With a savage, satisfied smile Zevran thrusts a few, final times before he goes rigid, throbbing deep within her. He barely pauses, but pulls out of her immediately, gathering upon his hand the mingled fluids all three of them have released, and begins to lick his own fingers. Alistair makes a strangled sound of shock, and Zevran turns challenging eyes to him.

"We are agreed, yes?" the elf asks, and Alistair releases his breath with a nod. Then he, too, reaches between her legs to collect the wetness upon his own fingers and sample it.

They do not ask her to choose between them again. Perhaps they are afraid that she actually will, or perhaps it simply no longer matters. It doesn't to her, at any rate, for she has decided _not_ to decide. In the months that follow, they are hers and she is theirs. Some nights only one will come to her tent; most nights it is both. They lie with her one after the other, taking turns, or simultaneously. One night she may have Alistair in her mouth and Zevran in her sheath, and the next time Alistair is buried within her sheath while Zevran takes possession of her rear.

It is only once Zevran's former comrade and companion, Taliesin, attacks her that she and Alistair realize they are replacements for the companions Zevran has lost. They provide him with an opportunity to do it all again, without the lies and betrayal and tragedy. Until now, they haven't understood that it is not either of them alone, but both that the Antivan needs.

At the human Landsmeet in Denerim, Alistair renounces all claim to the human throne so that he may stay by her side. Zevran opts not to return to his homeland and does the same. Together the three of them rebuild the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. They travel to Highever to pay homage to Duncan, to Antiva to deal with the Crows, to Orlais to visit Leliana, to Weisshaupt to explain their survival to the Grey Wardens.

When Alistair and Lyna are called to the Deep Roads, Zevran goes with them.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Dragon Age: Origins and associated content belong to EA and Bioware. I am making no money from their use.**


End file.
